


Wall

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-03
Updated: 2009-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"First time slightly angry wall sex? And maybe, if you want, sweet second "first" time sex after they wake up or something."</p><p>Written for <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/3656.html?thread=8120392#t8120392">this prompt</a> at <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/">st_xi_kink</a>, on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wall

****  
Wall  


 

The second time they have sex, which happens about three hours after the first time they have sex, is slow and explorative, playful and gentle, sweet and hot. It feels like something Jim could get used to.

 

The first time they have sex is the ultimate conglomeration of several cases of intergalactic clusterfucks finally coming to a head.

 

Or maybe just Jim and Spock colliding.

 

*****

 

The first time happens like this:

 

“Mr. Spock,” Jim says quietly, lacing each word with just enough venom to make Spock’s back even stiffer than usual, “come with me. The rest of you, as you were.” At the turbolift, he makes a half-turn, taking in the subdued faces of Chekov and Sulu, the way Uhura seems to have found something incredibly interesting on her console’s screens. Spock glides past him noiselessly. “I don’t want any interruptions. Unless my ship is on fire or another _Narada_ happens to cross our path, I don’t want to hear about it. Understood? Yes? Good. Sulu, you have the conn.”

 

The choir of quiet yessirs is drowned out by the quieter whoosh of the ‘lift doors closing. Jim internally bemoans the fact that turbolifts don’t have seats, because then at least he’d be able to sit on his hands, instead of fighting the incredible urge to throw a punch at Spock’s expressionless face. Jim’s never been very good at keeping a reign on his emotions, much less his reactions: he wants to throw a punch, he throws it. He wants to fuck someone, he tries his damndest to get them horizontal. He wanted to drive that stupid car off a cliff, he’d done it – granted, the desire to do so didn’t actually manifest until he’d been about to do it, but it’s the thought that counts.

 

He wants to plant his fist in Spock’s face - and he doesn’t, because over the last six months and through twenty-seven different fuck-ups on thirty-four different planets, he’s had more than ample opportunity to witness Spock’s

 

a) reflexes

 

b) strength

 

c) complete and utter disrespect for an opponent’s life once the first hit’s been thrown

 

and being not only the youngest captain in the history of Starfleet, but also the captain they had to scrape off of the interior walls of a turbolift with a spatula, well, that isn’t how James T. Kirk wants to go down.

 

“Senior crew quarters,” Jim says, the melodic beep of confirmation grating on his nerves like a chainsaw. Everything grates today: the too-quiet steps of his crew ( pussyfooting ) walking on eggshells around him, Chekov’s ‘Keptin Kurk’, Starfleet Command’s pointed reminder that ‘your diplomatic endeavors are somewhat lacking, Captain’, this morning’s lukewarm coffee.

 

Spock’s leaden silence grates, oppressive and almost an entity of its own, a second Spock hanging over the first Spock’s shoulder, lifting silent eyebrows in that slightly condescending, massively annoying way Spock’s got down to, Jim swears, an _art form_. He’s had nightmares about those eyebrows. He bets they have special classes for that, which little Vulcan boys and girls attend faithfully: How To Drive Those Around You Completely Nuts By Mowing One Facial Muscle 101. He bets Spock came out top of the class, with a framed diploma to boot.

 

Yeah, that grates the most, because over the course of the last six months, Jim really thought they were _getting_ somewhere - maybe. Cease fires beat open war; Jim started of his captaincy counting each day he and his First Officer weren’t at each other’s throat, literally, as a win.

 

Not today.

 

The ‘lift spits them out, and Jim strides toward his quarters. It’s one of the few places on the ship that can’t be visually accessed by video or sound surveillance, something he feels he’ll be eternally grateful for no matter _what_ is going to happen there in the next few minutes. Something _will_ happen – he feels it in his bones, hears it echoed in Spock’s footsteps that keep a synchronized pace with his; they’ve been working toward this point for the last six days and it’s going to be a blast, it’s going to shake the foundations of the universe, it’s –

 

It’s Jim turning on Spock the second the whoosh of the doors to his quarters cut them off from the rest of the ship, snapping, “What the _fuck_ is your problem?”

 

Spock stands at attention, his hands clasped in their customary position at the small of his back, face as impassive as ever. Jim’s gotten a little better at reading him, but he’s not quite yet at a point where he can differentiate between Spock ( bored ) and Spock ( bored, but trying very hard not to show it ), so the uninformative non-expression on that long face makes Jim’s blood boil just that little bit hotter. “I do not have a problem, Captain.”  

 

“Yeah, you _do_.” Jim stalks the length of his antechamber – took him fucking _weeks_ to get used to the fact that he now _has_ an antechamber, even if it’s just a small space with a sitting arrangement and a desk in the corner; he’s been thinking about reverting it into an office, because there’s no way he’s going to take his _work_ into the bedroom – trying to calm down at least a little. Keep this professional. “You’re watching, you’re _niggling_, you’re doing the eyebrow thing, you’ve been an absolute _pain in the ass_ since we got back from, whateverthefuck, that planet with the blue -”

 

“If you’re referring to the incident on Thaun 7, I must point out that your behavior during that diplomatic mission was less than exemplary and furthermore -”

 

“- floaty puffballs, and I’m your captain, goddamn it, _stop fucking interrupting me_! It’s fucking annoying!” Jim reaches the far wall, turns, and strides back with determination, ending right up in Spock’s face. Vulcans have one hell of a large personal space bubble, that much he knows. Spock’s eyes narrow, brows lowering a fraction – yeah, Spock, that’s _your _air I’m breathing – and mouth tightening at the corners. Fuck professional. Jim flexes his metaphorical bastard muscles. “I’m not good enough, is that it? Not living up to your screwy Vulcan standards of being the perfect captain? Command give you the order to watch and report, tell them how often I screw up, how often I break the fucking Directive, how often things don’t go according to plan? _What_?”

 

Spock takes a step back. “They gave me no such order. I suggest you check in with Dr. McCoy if you have a persistent feeling of persecution, as I believe there is a psychological ailment known as -”

 

Jim balls his hands into fists. “You finish that sentence, Spock, you finish it, and god help me, I’ll _break you._”__

Spock’s mouth flattens into a thin line, eyebrows drawn into a full glower now. “Threats of a physical nature are unbecoming of -”

 

“You’re doing it again!” Jim shouts, stepping forward. “You’re niggling – you’re correcting, you’re preaching, you’re ‘pointing out’, you’ve hardly drawn one breath between today and Planet Puffball! I’m not a child! I don’t need a chaperone to hold my hand, I don’t need _you_ to fucking point out my shortcomings to me – you think I don’t _know_ when a situation goes south? What, do you think I’m blind?”

 

“Captain,” Spock says, and wow, Jim’s never heard that tone of voice out of his First before: quiet, too quiet, kind of pressed, as though Spock’s one step away from snarling the words out. “As First Officer, it is my _duty_ to, as you put it, point out your shortcomings to you and, if necessary, suggest alternate courses of action. Courses that ensure your _safety_.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Crossing his arms, Jim affects an expression of exaggerated curiosity that he just _knows_ will make Spock that much madder – and he _is_ mad, Jim can tell, mad from the dangerously lowered eyebrows to the black glint of his eyes, the downward tilt of his mouth and the unnaturally straight line of his shoulders, down to the fucking _stick_ Vulcans obviously get rammed up their asses shortly after their birth, a stick that just grows and grows the older they get. “And what does it say there, exactly? To be an absolute _ass_ about everything? To make me feel like a complete and utter loser on purpose? To be so high and mighty about -”

 

“No,” Spock interrupts tersely, “Section 589a of the Prime Directive clearly states that ‘A First Officer’s primary duty is to ensure, in accordance with sections -”

 

“Don’t you fucking dare _quote_ the damn thing at me – I know what it says!”

 

“Then why do you not act accordingly?” Spock snaps, suddenly gravitating toward Jim, hands coming up as though he’d like nothing more than to take his captain by the shoulders and shake him – or wrap his hands around Jim’s throat again. “Why do you continually insist on ignoring the basest of security protocols? ‘Planet Puffball’, as you so chose to put it, is inhabited by a species known for spitting a substance not unlike hydrochloric acid at a perceived threat, and you -”

 

“The situation,” Jim grates, “was under control.”

 

“It was not.” Spock takes what passes as a deep breath for him, nostrils flaring just so. “Dr. McCoy had to treat you for first-degree burns on your left arm and -”

 

“This is what this is all about?” Jim barks out laughter, short and, to his own ears, ugly. “A few drops of a substance _not unlike_ salt acid – you are getting the difference here, aren’t you? - and you get your panties in a twist?”

 

“One example,” Spock says after a second deep breath, “in a long line of similar incidents which all lead to you spending time in sickbay, incidents which all could have been prevented if you would -”

 

Jim reaches up and pats Spock’s cheek. “Aww, I didn’t know you care.”

 

A few seconds later, his upper back hurting like a fucking _bitch_, Jim’s getting to his feet with as much dignity as possible, which isn’t much, because his First Officer has just thrown him across the room as if he’s a ragdoll, not a fully grown, adult man. It’s the armchair of the sitting arrangement that stopped him, possibly saved him from broken bones; Jim’s had his share of being thrown around, but nobody does throwing around quite like Spock.

 

His knees are shaking, adrenaline undoubtedly adding to the sudden, light feeling in Jim’s head. He steps away from the armchair, falling into a defensive posture automatically: knees locked, arms up, head down. _This_ is what he’s been waiting for all week.

 

“So,” Jim says, faintly surprised at how calm, how matter-of-fact he sounds. “Ready to stop niggling and start doing, are you?”

 

Spock, looking twice as mad as he did when Jim _emotionally compromised_ him, snarls something indecipherable in a language Jim doesn’t understand, probably Vulcan, possibly – no, quite likely insulting, and takes a step forward, toward Jim, fingers curled into claws –

 

And Jim, being what he is, something he doesn’t want to change, _ever_, because that way lies boredom, lies _giving in_, knows he’s inviting his own funeral, but he adds, “That why Uhura dumped you? Nagged her to death, too, didn’t you? Tell me -”

 

Spock takes another step forward. His glare spells death.

 

“- did you throw her across the bedroom -”

 

This time, he hits the wall. The breath’s driven out of his lungs and Spock’s on top of him, hard and heavy and fuck –

 

_hard_

\- and Jim, toes dangling an inch or so above the floor, hands scrabbling for a hold on Spock’s shirt, Spock’s shoulders, Spock’s hands around his throat and the muscles in Jim’s neck screaming for relief, yanks his knee up in reaction, but all he gets is a grunt, which may or may not pass for pain in Spock-speak.

 

Spock drops him back onto his feet, shoves a leg between Jim’s, hands on – no, _hand_ on Jim’s shoulder, the other still iron-hard around his throat, god, not quite choking him, and his back and the back of his head really, really hurt now –

 

The kiss doesn’t quite come as a surprise.

 

It’s short and messy, Spock pressing against him as though he’s trying to embed Jim in the fucking wall, and no surprise or not, Jim’s stationary for a good ten seconds while Spock’s tongue swipes along his teeth and curls around his own without finesse. He’s feeling light-headed again – or still – and Spock’s _hard_ against him; Spock’s kissing the air out of Jim; Spock’s yanking his hands away from Jim and stepping back –

 

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jim manages to gasp, still on his feet somehow despite the sudden pull of gravity. He lunges for the Vulcan, fingers tangling in Spock’s shirt, the hair at the back of Spock’s head. “Don’t you fucking -”

 

This time, when he connects with the wall, the pain is more pronounced. It’s a sharp flare of bright, red light across what is quickly turning into a morass of violent need, and Jim can’t stop the gasp, can’t hold onto it even as he holds onto Spock with all his strength.

 

Spock shoves against him – Jim’s shoulder blades are really going to hate him later – and buries his face against the side of Jim’s throat, where he breathes deeply and goes still. Jim doesn’t want that, this loss of momentum; give Spock enough time to think and he’ll analyze everything to death. Jim doesn’t quite know _what_ he wants – other than the obvious, of course – but it’s not this, so he tightens his hold on Spock’s hair and shoves his hips forward aggressively, right along Spock’s thigh, and tells him, “C’mon, Spock, don’t stop now.”

 

Spock makes a sound somewhere between laughter and a sob. “I -”

 

“Don’t. Stop.” Jim tells him again, lowers his mouth to the Vulcan neck bared so enticingly right in front of him, and bites down. He hooks his fingers into the collar of Spock’s uniform shirt and yanks at it until the fabric gives way, baring more skin for him to lick and bite. “That’s an _order_.”

 

“As you wish,” Spock says, quietly.

 

And – wow. Jim’s never been one for manhandling, least of all when _he_ is the one being manhandled, but here, now, Spock’s inhuman strength is one massive turn-on. His boots drag over the carpet as he’s maneuvered away from the wall, Spock steering them toward the bedroom. Jim decides to just let it happen, manages to hold on with one arm wrapped tightly around Spock’s neck, free hand fumbling between them at the front of Spock’s pants. There’s barely enough room for his hand, but he gets his fingers in there, touching hot, hot skin.

 

Spock slams them against the wall right next to Jim’s bed, hooks both hands under Jim’s ass and lifts him. Jim growls at losing the tentative hold he has on Spock’s erection, but happily wraps his legs around the Vulcan’s waist, because, _fuck_, Spock’s _moving Jim just the way he wants him_, hands tight and bruising on Jim’s hips.

 

For an endless minute or two, Jim’s content to let Spock dry-hump him.

 

Then he lifts his mouth from where he’s been leaving bruises along the side of Spock’s neck to Spock’s ear, breathes warm and moist against the shell, and whisper-asks, “Wanna fuck me?”, chasing the words with the tip of his tongue.

 

He gets a particularly hard rub for his trouble. Spock – _shudders_ against him, one shaky exhale against Jim’s throat. “Yes.”

 

“Yes,” Jim repeats, fingers winding into Spock’s hair again. “Yes. _Yes_.” He yanks on Spock’s hair, pulling until Spock’s looking at him, god, glittering black eyes and wet mouth. “Bottom drawer, nightstand.”

 

Spock lets him down, one hand pressed hard against the centre of Jim’s chest, other hand reaching for the indicated drawer. It’s as if Spock’s making sure that Jim isn’t changing his mind, isn’t running away. His narrow-eyed gaze remains locked onto Jim’s face as he roots around in the drawer.

 

It’s kind of sweet.

 

“Not going anywhere,” Jim says with an easy smile, already undoing his pants and shoving them down past his hips along with his underwear. “You wanna take this to the bed, maybe -”

 

Spock’s hand emerges from the drawer clutching a familiar tube, and the next thing Jim knows is that he’s facing the wall, nearly breaking his nose against it. He yelps and turns his head, snaps, “Careful,” at Spock, and then, “Fuck, you turn me _on_, c’mon, fuck me.”

 

It’s been a while since he’s done this, but the burn of two of Spock’s fingers sliding into him doesn’t stop Jim from thrusting his hips back, asking for more. He bends one arm against the wall to pillow his head against his forearm, drops his free hand down to wrap around his cock, yelps again when Spock yanks at his wrist until he lets go. Slick, hot fingers wrap around his cock before he can start to complain, though, his breath rushing out of him on a heartfelt groan. He has no idea if Spock’s done this before, but the grip around him is just tight enough, just _right_ enough.

 

Fuck, they should’ve done this _days_ ago. Months, even. That they’re doing this at all is a miracle in itself, and maybe, just maybe Spock’s bitching and complaining hasn’t really been bitching and complaining but a particularly odd way of Spock telling Jim, ‘I care about you, you _idiot, _so would you please not _die_ on me?’.

 

Or maybe Spock’s going to fuck him through the wall because he _wants_ to, because Jim’s just so good at pushing Spock’s buttons –

 

Spock grips Jim’s cock hard enough to make him yelp again, scissors the two fingers in Jim’s ass as he pulls them out. Spock’s mouth lands hot and wet on the back of Jim’s neck, no ‘May I? Are you ready?’ as he sinks his teeth into Jim’s skin and his cock into Jim’s ass. 

 

“Fuck!” Jim’s head snaps back. Spock shoves against him, growls against the back of his neck. It sends a shiver down Jim’s spine, and his pants and underwear, bunched around his knees, are in the fucking _way_ so he can’t spread his legs as wide as he’d like to. He breathes through clenched teeth until, finally, Spock’s in him as far as he can go, hips pressed hard against Jim’s ass. Between the wall, Spock’s grip on his cock and Spock’s cock in his ass, Jim’s not going anywhere. “Move.”

 

“Stop giving me instructions,” Spock grinds out.

 

Jim laughs just because he knows Spock will _feel_ that. “What, no ‘please’?”

 

Spock _twists_ his hips, pulls back, shoves back in. “No. Stop talking.”

 

Okay. No instructions. No talking. Jim can live with that. Jim can do that. Jim _loves_ that, because somehow Spock knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, fucking him just right, and when Spock’s hand begins to stroke just right, too, Jim’s thoughts crumble together like a house of cards. All that’s left is heat, and _slick_ and _slide_, Spock’s breath hot and moist against his skin, the faintest, softest moans tantalizing in Jim’s ear.

 

They don’t last long. They _can’t_, or at least Jim can’t, not enough breath for all the moans and groans that want out of his throat. He hasn’t had sex in forever, not counting his own hand and his overactive imagination, and the adrenaline still rushing through him combined with Spock’s weight against him, Spock’s cock in him, Spock’s hand around him palming the tip of his cock on every upstroke, it all rushes together into a wave of heat welling up from his toes.

 

Jim shouts, curses, bucks as much as he can, hears Spock take a weird, hitched kind of breath, and comes. Spock keeps fucking him, right up to the point where it starts to change from good to _oh my god, too much_, takes another weird, hitched kind of breath, and that’s it, apparently. There’s a rush of heat _inside_, a convulsive tightening of Spock’s hand around Jim’s cock – Jim shouts, again – and then Spock’s letting go of him, separating them, stepping away.

 

Gravity drags at Jim with a vengeance, but somehow he manages to remain upright. He’s a mess, and his ass hurts, and his cock feels like it’s been rubbed _raw_, but for the first time in six days, he doesn’t feel the overwhelming need to take Spock apart with his bare hands.

 

He turns around just in time to see Spock trying to button his pants with fingers that tremble. Fingers that are still slick, and – no.

 

A quick step forward turns into a near fall because his pants are still around his knees, but Jim catches himself against Spock’s front, hooks one foot around Spock’s ankle, and shoves. They land in a jumble of arms and legs, Jim’s nose nearly breaking against Spock’s sternum this time. He crawls up, dignity be damned, fists his hands in Spock’s collar. “Stay.”

 

Spock, finally looking something other than pristinely put together, sweat dotting his upper lip and eyes still fathomless, glittering black, wraps his hands around Jim’s wrists. “I should -”

 

“Ssh.” Jim shoves him, just a little. “Stay.”

 

Jim falls asleep like that, holding onto the collar of Spock’s shirt, his pants around his knees, Spock’s hands warm and tight around his wrists.

 

*****

 

He wakes up feeling like one big bruise, a crick in his neck, and laboriously toes off his boots, then wriggles until his pants and underwear slide off of his legs. He’s not lying on top of Spock anymore, is kind of pressed up against Spock’s side, but one of his hands is still wrapped tightly in Spock’s collar.

 

He says the first thing that comes to mind: “I didn’t mean that, you know? About Uhura. She’d have probably cut your balls off if you’d – do you even _have_ balls? Uhm. I mean, anyway, I didn’t mean that.”

 

No reaction. Jim lifts his head off of Spock’s shoulder and grins at the sight of tightly closed eyes and parted lips. Spock’s out cold, and he’s out cold _in Jim’s bed_, and Jim revels in the warm glow of affection for a minute before he leans over and licks into Spock’s mouth.

 

Spock’s eyes open slowly.

 

“Hey,” Jim says, half expecting to be thrown off in a hurry. “Good,” he glances at the chronometer, “afternoon.”

 

Spock lifts a hand and rubs at his face, and Jim, utterly captivated by the all too human gesture, doesn’t notice the rest of Spock’s body moving until he’s suddenly rolled onto his back. Spock gently disentangles Jim’s fingers from his collar and sits up.

 

“So,” Jim says, trying to not let his disappointment bleed into his voice, “that’s it?” He shoves up so he’s reclining on his elbows, watching Spock get up. “You’re leaving and we’re never going to mention this again, is -”

 

Spock takes his shirt off neatly and then _throws it on the floor_, and Jim shuts up in a hurry. Spock says, “I do not wish to leave.” He bends to pick up something from the floor. “Do you object?”

 

Jim wonders if Old Spock was talking about _this_ when he spoke about friendship, but he kind of doubts it. There wasn’t anything in that vision/mind-meld thing on Delta Vega that hinted at what kind of relationship, exactly, Old Spock and Other Kirk had, just a faint hint of fondness for a long gone friend and a not so faint sense of loss overshadowed by the mind-breaking, breath-taking loss felt at the sight of Vulcan being sucked into a black hole.

 

Spock, this Spock, _his_ Spock, is taking his pants off one-handed, stepping out of them, standing at the side of Jim’s bed with the tube of slick held casually in his other hand. “Jim.”

 

“What? Oh.” Jim shakes loose the tenacious sense-memory of that mind-meld – the thing has a tendency to cling unpleasantly if he’s not careful – and looks up at his First Officer. The usual, passive expression is back on his face, but Jim looks harder and sees the faint traces of uncertainty, mostly in the way Spock’s looking back at him. “No. Hell no.” He shakes his head. “But we do have to talk.”

 

“Later,” Spock says, climbing back onto the bed and straddling Jim’s thighs.

 

*****

 

The second time happens like this:

 

Spock paints Jim’s cock with lube, short-circuits Jim’s brain when he reaches back and prepares himself, and refuses to let Jim put a hand on him until he’s sinking down on him.

 

Jim has all the time in the world to observe that Spock _does_ have balls, albeit somewhat different ones, smaller and kind of… flat, not as loose-hanging as a human male’s.

 

He has nipples and a bellybutton, too. Black hair arrows down to his groin, dusts his chest. He flushes green, but Jim’s had sex with Orions who are green all over, so no mood-breaker there; Jim runs his hands over Spock’s front, thumbs the small, hard nipples, dips a fingertip into the shallow indentation of his bellybutton, and wraps a hand around Spock’s cock, which looks normal enough.

 

Spock sets a languid pace, drops a hand to cover Jim’s where it rests against Spock’s hip, locking their fingers. He gasps beautifully when Jim remembers something he once saw Uhura do and pulls Spock’s hand to his mouth to lip his index and middle finger.

 

They last longer the second time, long enough for Jim to feel sweat break out in the small of his back, long enough for Spock’s thighs to start trembling with strain. Jim puts his feet flat against the bed, unable to resist temptation, and fucks up into tight heat just when things start to shiver apart. He bites down on Spock’s fingers, swipes his tongue over the pads of his fingertips and his thumb over the head of Spock’s cock, and comes.

 

Heat spatters his belly and chest and Spock curls up on top of him, face pressed against Jim’s shoulder.

 

The second time, Jim manages to stay awake long enough to wriggle around until he can pull the blanket up over both of them.

 

“You wanted to talk,” Spock says, slowly curling around a pillow.

 

“Later.” Jim yawns, tucking himself closely against Spock’s back and throwing a possessive arm and leg around him. “Do you object?”

 

Spock doesn’t.

 

*****

 

END


End file.
